


一个人

by vltnxing (pyxz)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyxz/pseuds/vltnxing
Summary: it’s just a small story really, about among other things: a boy, some death, love, and quite a lot of premeditated murders.





	一个人

**Author's Note:**

> first person, narrated by yixing :) loosely inspired by the A-mazing novel, the book thief & ig based off of my previous fic 'a little death' ;-)

This is a tiring profession.

I’m not telling you this to have your sympathy. I’m saying it as a fact—maybe it’s an opinion; but with such a small window of reference, it’s hard to say what it really is. I guess it’s a statement.

You see, there is only one of me in this world—and only one other that can understand what I mean, to some extent.

If you're wondering who I am, don't worry, you will inevitably know soon. Never worry, because there is inevitability in everything. In fact, you probably already know me. However, there are so many things that we know but still go about our days mystified about—like the meaning of life, the reason for existence. So many claim not to know and so many speculate as if the answer hasn’t always been right in front of them.

But, I digress. This isn’t a lecture on philosophy. This is a story about a boy, and love, and me. Never did I think I would ever find myself in such a triangle, making such a mess of things, yet here I am, standing yet again in a pool of blood—or, as I know it, the only place where I can tell him I love him.

 

**FAIR FAREWELLS**

 

I can’t be sure if farewells are more often fair than not; justice isn’t as black-and-white as life and death, unfortunately. However, I will say this: old age is one of the kindest, _fairest_ ways to go. Of course, some will argue, not only because humans plainly love arguing, but also because there is always the humanity component, the physical suffering, the prolonged pain. Apparently, these are most undesirable conditions. To some, a swift, painless death is better. Fairer.

I cannot say for certain. This again is only a statement. What I can say is, from what I’ve seen, souls leave bodies in less battered conditions when they come from bodies of more wrinkled skin, more torn muscles, and wearier bones.

This is the state I met his father in. His father was a bed-ridden 68-year-old man suffering from lung cancer when the cruel Cycle of Life introduced us. He could no longer speak. The hair on his head was sparse, and more and more of it fell every passing day. He had to eat and excrete and breathe and live through tubes.

To be honest, I have seen worse, but this, again, is only a statement.

It was supposed to be quick and easy: me reaching for his soul to deliver him to eternity, the line going flat accompanied by the loud beeping sound of the machine, nurses and doctors rushing, sometimes a family member crying. I had many other plans and jobs that day. None of them included a boy, no older than twenty, seeing me—even more, brazenly _reaching_ for my arm and _begging_ me. I suppose it’s quite easy to guess what he asked for. I think it’s what anyone would ask for if they had the chance and courage that this boy did. It would have moved me as much as it had shocked me if I were anyone else—if I were Life, maybe. But death, as most people think, is always more ruthless.

Please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not saying that I’m ruthless or cruel, though it may sound like that. I don’t drink human tears for a good time or take any pleasure in tearing apart realities. I’m simply saying that there is more choice in living than there is in dying. Dying is, in all forms, inevitable. Living is a situation that can be more easily helped.

I could do nothing more for him than let him take a short walk with his father. A minute.

I stood by the door and watched him walk alongside his father; talking merrily with, what might have looked to passersby, air, the slippers he had bought for his father earlier that morning clutched in between his shaking hands. Souls can’t wear shoes, unfortunately. I could do nothing more for him than this.

“It’s time for us to go,” I told him, the feeling of talking to a human still entirely new. Strange. It felt forbidden, to an extent, but not at all awful. I suppose it felt nice. It had been so long since I had been seen, much less spoken to.

He let his father’s hand go so that I could take him into my arms. There, he lay peacefully lifeless once more.

“Thank you,” he said to me. I think he would have reached out to hug me if he could.

To this day, I think that’s a nice thought.

 

**FAST FORWARD**

 

This next story is a little less peaceful, and swifter. If there is one thing poets are right about, it’s that death is different for everyone; sometimes it comes slowly like sunrise, and sometimes it comes _swiftly_ like the swipe of an ax. Nevertheless, it involves the same boy, and death, and me. Not that the last two are entirely different.

This time, I came to collect the soul of a young man. He was a healthy 23-year-old boy with crushed legs and broken bones.

I had no idea he would be there—not the dead boy’s body, no, that was definitely there, all bloody and graphic on the surgery table—I’m talking about Park Chanyeol: the son of the old man that I just told you about, the love of my little fool of a heart.

He was sitting in the hallway when I arrived. He saw me passing by, and stopped me just like he had done all those years ago. This time, the tears in his eyes were different—sadness and desperation, still, but anger too, and violence. Although this had happened before, I will admit that I was surprised. I didn’t expect such a grand phenomenon to happen again. Yet, I welcomed it.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, clutching onto my arm tighter, “Please don’t take him. Pleaseplease—“ he choked on his tears. “Please don’t take himplease.” He fell to his knees, tears that he had just quelled rushing back down his face.

I told you this was a tiring profession, just as tiring as being the loved one of a dead person is.

“I—“ Suddenly, it felt as if I couldn’t speak. Sure, I didn’t speak much, even now—often times, I hold my breath—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t speak. I could. I can. But the sound of his crying and breathing and pleading was too loud in my ears. I could barely hear my own thoughts, let alone my voice. “I’m sorry,” I articulated clumsily.

He wouldn’t stop crying. It was understandable, I suppose. Warily, I put my arm on his shoulder.

This was my mistake. Notably, it seemed like less of a mistake than it actually was at the time. If you don’t understand me now, you will later.

I discovered something else at the time. I discovered yet another grand phenomenon, though this one was nowhere as amazing as Chanyeol’s ability to see me and talk to me. This one wasn’t about Chanyeol, either. It was about me. I discovered I had the ability to take life.

I might be confusing you. Let me explain. Of course, it has been my job to ‘take life’ for as long as I can remember, but what I mean is that I can forcibly take away life. Just as life can forcibly give life, I can take it the same way. See, I had never before forced someone’s soul out of their body, neither gradually nor suddenly. I know poets and storytellers like to talk about death like it’s life, but before that moment of my discovery, I thought they were wrong.

What I discovered was that I could drain someone’s body of their soul, as if it were their blood, if I touched them with my hands. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but to those of you who imagine that this must have been horrible for me, you are right.

I was terrified.

Everyone has different reactions to discovering that they can kill, I suppose.

Even more terrifying was that I didn’t discover this immediately, and kept my hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder for longer. As he has told me, it was painful for him, but he didn’t tell me then because, he says, more than anything, it was comforting. Whether he’s talking about the pain or my presence or something else entirely, I still don’t know.

Anyway, here is another statement from me, one I’m sure you have heard before: If I had known then what I know now, I probably would have done things differently.

Yet another statement from me, one you probably don’t hear often: If I had known then what I know now, less people would be dead.

If you don’t understand what I’m saying now, you inevitably will.

Inevitability—isn’t it comforting? Yet people still fear death. This is one thing about humans that I will never completely understand.

Going back to our story, this next part probably won’t surprise you: I could do nothing for him. However, this next part is the most surprising part of all: I wished that I could.

Sure, I didn’t believe I was extremely wise—especially now, I don’t—but I had never, before that moment, pegged myself foolish enough to think that death could be helped.

I couldn’t help him, and I couldn’t believe that I thought I could help myself.

Even more foolish, I said to him, “I wish I could help.” Even more foolish—I know, it’s hard to believe; how can I get any less wise?—I meant it.

To this day, I don’t know what quelled his tears—my words or time; he says it was my touch—but when I said that to him, he all but stopped crying. He didn’t stop mourning, no—I think even now he still hasn’t stopped—but he stopped crying. I felt him hold his breath and say, “Thank you.”

It was around this time that I made my discovery. I heard him grit his teeth, and when I lifted my hand I saw specks of his skin burned away from his shoulder. It took me only a second to realize that I had done that. To my memory, there was no other expression on my face except that of terror, certainly nothing remotely happy or delighted, but I remember clearly that he laughed.

He laughed. It is a sound I seldom hear—so, I can’t be sure if it’s this depravity or my own insanity that led me to feel a mutual delight over the morbidity of mutilation.

To my surprise, and perhaps yours, it wasn’t my last time experiencing this _particular_ emotion. If you don’t understand me now, don’t worry, you inevitably will.

Never worry, for inevitability can be found in almost all things—because of the nature of this story, I have to say _almost;_ nothing could have led me to predict how this story would unfold.

After a wordless, hesitant goodbye, I left.

Additionally, I can’t be sure of it, for I have, again, such a small window of reference, but I think it was in that moment that I fell in love.

 

**LOVE, THE BLACKEST AND DEEPEST HOLE; THE BLACKEST AND DARKEST SECRET**

 

Let’s move on to the next part of the story. This is the most exciting part. Am I terrible for saying that? After reading this you might argue that exciting isn’t the right word; you might say that worst, most terrible, most awful, grossest, most despicable might be better terms. Again, this is a statement, not a fact. I have no better word for the following events than exciting, and I can remember no feeling as well as I can remember excitement.

What you must understand is that nothing in this next part, before it happened, had happened to me before. I don’t think this is particularly difficult for you to grasp, because if you’re reading this story, you’re probably human, and, from what I’ve seen, humans feel nothing more than they feel excitement when they are presented with something new; albeit, they might express this excitement in an array of forms—happily, violently, angrily. I’m not saying that I’m human either, or even capable of feeling what you feel (if I am, I cannot say for sure), but I don’t know how to say this any other way.

I fell in love—more accurately, I suppose, I am in love.

It took many tragedies and so much blood, but I fell in love. We fell in love.

How exactly this happened is what I’ll be telling you now.

I can’t say for sure what events or thoughts or emotions preceded Chanyeol’s decision, but eventually he made the decision to see me.

You can imagine how dangerous this is for there is no other way to see me besides dying. As you know, nothing other than a soul waiting to be reaped merits my arrival.

Even saying this now leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I’m not saying that I hate my job, or that I don’t love Chanyeol. What I’m saying now is nothing different from what I have said before: I take no pleasure from taking lives. What I do doesn’t sadden me, but it certainly doesn’t put me in a place of epiphany. I do what I do because it is necessary, because I am part of something much bigger than myself.

The next time I saw Chanyeol, he was at a particularly low point in his life. He was lost, and he told me that he did what he did because he felt very alone; because I was the only friend he had left.

He had tried hanging himself from the ceiling. It was nothing that I hadn’t seen before, but what I did was something I had definitely never done before:

I stopped him.

I can’t tell you now how I did it simply because I don’t remember. Everything that happened that night, including the loss of memory about it that I would experience long after, was entirely new to me.

I don’t think any of you will ever be able to relate completely, but I think some of you will have an imagination colorful enough to try and imagine what it must have felt like: having lived for as long as I had at that moment, thinking I had experienced everything I could ever experience, then suddenly being flooded with so much newness. It was shocking, to say the least.

But I did what I did, whatever it was. The rope loosened and he fell into my arms, coughing violently, tears springing from his eyes, color returning to his skin. I nearly forgot that I could kill him. If I hadn’t remembered sooner and let him go sooner, I probably would have ended up killing him.

He looked up at me, and I will never forget the way he looked. Hopeless, hopeful, happy, sad, defeated and determined all at once. I marveled at it. I marveled at him.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I can’t tell you how exactly I asked this question, or even why, simply because I don’t completely remember, but I vaguely recall feeling sad and upset and bewildered and happy to see him again.

Happiness was probably the only mutual feeling that existed in the room at that moment. We were feeling completely different things, as far as I could tell, but the one thing that we both felt was _happiness_ over seeing each other again.

He smiled, then clutched my hand tight with his desperation. “You’ll take me now,” he said, smiling and nodding fervently. “Right? You can take me with you.”

I don’t know what you’re thinking now, but I will tell you that excitement was still the feeling of the hour. Along with it, sadness, confusion, and a quiet desperation. Maybe this desperation can be interpreted as yearning of the damned and earnest kind.

“No. Death… doesn’t work that way,” I said to him. For a moment before I spoke, I didn’t know what to say. I surely didn’t want to be dishonest, however, even back then, I don’t think I wanted to tell him what I told him; what we would have to keep telling each other—that… our circumstances are impossible.

But I knew that it was something that would have to be said eventually, whether or not I was right to say it so immediately, I can’t be sure.

I told you there is inevitability in everything.

Once again, I found myself apologizing to him. Over the next years, I found myself doing this a lot.

I can’t describe his reaction to you. The look on his face was something of sadness and determination, but even saying that seems inaccurate. I can’t explain it in words. There is so much about Chanyeol that I cannot explain to you. However, I think, inevitably, someone more articulate will be able to come up with better words.

What he said next was nothing I could have ever expected. “Will I see you again?” he asked. “When will I see you again?”

My answer surprised me even more. “… Hopefully never again,” I said. In retrospect, the half-heartedness of my reply is probably the ink with which our future was written. Chanyeol started the fire; I fueled it. However, I didn’t think of it that way at the time. At the time, I was only concerned with protecting him. It was a completely new thing for me: actively desiring someone’s salvation.

I know that the stark contrast of our emotions with our responsibilities and circumstances is what makes this difficult.

I left then. As you know, that wasn’t the last time I saw Chanyeol.

The next time I saw him, it was dark. The room was dark, and it reeked of death. I’m not saying that I smell bad, or that I smell like anything at all—but I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about a different death.

See, I hadn’t come to that room to see him. I didn’t even know he was there. I came to that room to collect the soul of a 21-year-old girl. I found her lying on top of a table, cut in places that would make her bleed most—her wrists, her chest, her throat, her back—blood dripping all around her. This is the death I’m talking about. The blood, the flesh, the unpleasant smell of a crime. Yet, I couldn’t describe it as unpleasant, because Chanyeol was standing right there, right in front of me, gloved hands, kitchen knife.

I’m not saying I’m cruel, nor am I saying that I’m kind. What I’m saying now is nothing that I haven’t said before: death is black-and-white, justice not as much so. And although I know these things, I don’t exactly concern myself with them. I don’t know what you will think of this, but I have always been concerned with indulging anything that might distract me from time. Distractions are the only way I keep sane.

Chanyeol is so much more than a distraction, of course, but it is one of the things that he is to me. Even then, he was my best distraction.

Some of you may argue that what he did was terrible—the news certainly don’t take kindly to disappearances and murder, and the headlines are no less kind. You might even think me heartless for not stopping him. There is nothing I can say to change what you think, and nothing more that I can do to totally understand your statements.

He looked exhausted and terrible when I first came in, but once he saw me, his face lit up with a smile. This is one of the many things about him that I cannot tell you about, simply because I have no words for it. But if you can imagine the most beautiful smile you have ever seen, and multiply the happiness that it made you feel by a million, then I suppose that’s the closest thing you can come to feeling what I felt at that moment. I couldn’t help smiling back. Everything felt so new. Excitement was still the feeling of the hour—it still is now.

He dropped the knife on the bloody wooden table, and then enveloped me in an embrace. He held me tight while his skin burned. He told me that he missed me while he slowly withered. I didn’t want to take any more of him than I already had, but I couldn’t bring myself to push him away as immediately as I should have.

I loved him so much. I love him just as much as I did then. I don’t think I can love more than I already do. Then again, there seem to be so many things that I don’t know.

What I do know—even back then, during the first woman’s death, I knew this—is that what we have, and what we’re doing to keep what we have, is dangerous. But what that word really means anymore, I’m not entirely sure.

 

**EXCITEMENT IS STILL THE FEELING OF THE HOUR**

 

This is the sort of ending to my story— _sort of_ , because Chanyeol is still alive, and I am still collecting souls. I have been with Chanyeol for exactly thirty-two years now. Excitement is still the feeling of the hour. He works in a bank now, and I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now. It always warms my heart to see him so well. I value his happiness above all things, after all.

We have made many discoveries since we started seeing each other: that time won’t permit me to stay too long; but, that the slower and more agonizing someone’s death is, the more difficult it is to remove their soul from their body—the longer I can stay. Chanyeol says it's a tiring profession—butchering people—but that no work is too much if it means having me to come home to at the end of the day.

In case you’re curious, fifty-four people have passed since the first woman that you read about—you might have read about her here, or in the newspapers. You might have read about the others as well. The articles always say that the deaths are ‘inexplicably gruesome’ and ‘inhumane’; bodies mutilated and hacked and sawed and tortured and burned for a long time; never dying a painless death; the ‘serial killer’ still undiscovered, ‘still at large.’

If you read any of these words, then you’re reading a love story.

**Author's Note:**

> technically death is genderless ig?? but i just put m/m idk. hope u liked it! also this is a one shot idk why it says chapter 1 idk how to use ao3


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